


I Feel My Soul On Fire =/= My World When He's Not There

by AnnaBolena



Series: Red is not the new Black [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolcare, Multi, Prison AU Sequel: political edition, R has a tortured little soul, Strained friendships free of charge, also: outdated memes & terrible puns, and they were ROOMMATES, not-at-all-vaguely critical of the French Prison System
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 19:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “I’ve got to be honest, everything inside of me wants to run back to Calais.”“Everything?”“It is good to see you, ange,” Grantaire’s face softens a little. Enjolras exhales, relieved. “All the wild drinking going on around me isn’t doing much good for me or my state of mind though.”“Enjolras!” Bossuet comes up beside him, Joly trailing one step behind, “Did you hear Ferre is now just behind your father in the polls? The time? Near. The blood in my veins? Stirred. My dick? Also sti- Oh, hello, who is this?”Enjolras looks at Grantaire, unsure what to say. What does R want him to say?a.k.a. Grantaire and Enjolras are out of prison - and now?





	I Feel My Soul On Fire =/= My World When He's Not There

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this isn't how Senate elections work in France, they're indirectly elected by elected officials, but for the sake of this Story, suspend your disbelief with me and pretend like they're Chosen by The People Who Need To Stir. The National Assembly, on the other Hand, is directly elected, but Député doesn't Sound as cool as Senator, ya feel? :/ Together they make up the Congress.  
> The indirect election shit means the French Senate favors rural Areas when it comes to sway, and hence the French Senate is mostly right-er in its tendencies. The left took Control of the Senate in 2011 and I was very gleeful about that for the short Duration of it, but it has since been lost once more. Sad stuff.  
> Have an 18.5k monstrosity of Enjoltaire and Les Amis feels.

**I Feel My Soul On Fire =/= My World When He’s Not There**

On the whole, his days out of prison have been very structured. He gets up at six AM – because that’s when lights come on in prison and that is what his body is used to after two years, two months on the outside aren’t enough to reverse a habit burned in so deeply (intrusively, he wonders if this means R finally has the chance to sleep in like he’d confessed he dreamed of doing one day or if he is even less able to ignore the six am rule than Enjolras, and then berates himself for thinking of R again.) – and then he sits at the kitchen table for about an hour as he waits for Courfeyrac to wake up so they can head into work and be there by nine.

Sometimes he catches Courfeyrac on his morning slink to the bathroom, in various stages of undress, once or twice, memorably, with come still dried and crusty on his chest or abs or thighs. He never catches Combeferre, because hospital shifts start at six AM, and he’s usually out of the door by five thirty. Courfeyrac will shrug in that ‘what can ya do, buddy’ manner of his and smile before jumping into the shower.

All in all, he doesn’t remember his life being quite so full of leisure time, when he thinks of what things were like before his period of incarceration. But then again, back then he used his leisure time to organize political protests on a scale he is no longer allowed to. They’ve essentially muzzled him, and though he longs to chafe at the restrictions he knows it is best to wait until his parole has run its course and he is – by the state, if not by himself – considered a free man once more.

(Imagining Marius dressed as the historical general he so fancies, screaming at him to keep his head down, got him through the first few months of prison, and it helps him get through re-integrating into society now.)

Walking the streets is an experience these days, to say the least. Every person he passes gives him the impression they are sizing him up. It used to be plainly uncomfortable, but before prison he put those stares down to the idiocies of attraction based on appearance. It’s probably still for that reason, but he questions it now. His brain tells him that if they are looking at him they must be trying to scope him out, getting ready to attack. He feels more comfortable when he has someone he trusts with him, and most comfortable when that someone is additionally very buff and therefore physically intimidating. That means he spends a lot of time by Bahorel’s side. That’s new, which isn’t to say they weren’t friends before he went to prison, but they never spent much time together just the two of them. Feuilly is thankfully not a jealous person. Enjolras admits though, that Bahorel’s knack for wearing the brightest colors imaginable undoes most of his first-glance-credit. (Then again, when someone has _that much_ first-glance-credit, it doesn’t matter what clothes they wear. Bahorel is built like the picture you get in your head of a gladiatorial champion.)

Enjolras works until five, indulging in a lunch break in between that he used to scorn before, and then he and Courfeyrac tend to head home. If Courfeyrac is bothered by Enjolras’ newfound need for constant companionship, he doesn’t say anything. Courfeyrac has caught onto the fact that just because Enjolras seeks out his presence, it doesn’t mean he wants to talk. That used to be what it meant, true. Enjolras just can’t really be alone anymore without getting antsy about his own safety. Being alone usually means being vulnerable.

(Most tellingly, Enjolras locks his bedroom door from the inside without thinking about it, every night, and when he catches himself doing it he feels bad because rationally he knows he will never have anything to fear from either of his roommates – he’s known them for decades now. But a lock is a tangible obstacle that really does make a difference, and he needs it to feel at ease enough to sleep.)

He doesn’t talk about Grantaire. He did, once, when he got out. He had told his closest friends that he had met someone still on the inside. But then Grantaire disappeared, miraculously paroled after so many years, and he hasn’t heard from Grantaire since. None of his friends have asked after him, and he doesn’t initiate that conversation. (He wants to, though. He really wants to talk about Grantaire. Preferably with Grantaire.)

Prison habits stick with him easier than any others he has tried to build over the years of his life.

+

Mostly, the next ten months following his release from prison pass, as time inevitably must, like so: On Mondays he meets with his parole officer, a young woman named Cosette whom he likes well enough and who seems to be sweet on Marius. Whenever his lawyer comes along to discuss the progress he’s been making Enjolras gets that impression, at least. Incidentally, the instances in which Marius comes along and then even lingers once Enjolras excuses himself increase even as the end of Enjolras’ parole draws near. (And then Courfeyrac tells him that Marius has a date standing with her when Enjolras is finally rid of the parole burden and things make a lot more sense. He’s happy for Marius. He misses Grantaire.)

On weekdays he works. On Wednesdays and Fridays there are Meetings he attends. On the weekends he reads next to Courfeyrac on the couch or takes long, long walks across the city.

He checks all of the boxes easily enough. No repeat offenses, he stays away from soapboxing at protests, instead relying on non-violent resistance – sign-holding and the like. He has a job at Courfeyrac’s paper writing the political column. He has a group of friends to support him. On paper, he is the least likely candidate to land himself back on the inside, even as the fire of fury that has spurred his activism on before burns ever brightly inside his chest.

And then, three months before he is officially parole-free, he suddenly has a political party backing his ambitions, unanimously voted into existence at their last general ABC meeting.

(What used to be a little college group is now a group of over a hundred people, even if he has little direct contact with those that aren’t the core of his lieutenants. It turns into an arrangement of general ABC meetings on Fridays and ABCore meetings – thank you Courfeyrac for the name – on Mondays and Wednesdays. Mondays are for ‘chillaxations’ – once more thanks to Courfeyrac, who often laments that he has too lenient a heart to have become a newspaper owner, despite being quite successful at his job – and Wednesdays are for planning. Courfeyrac kept the whole, larger thing running on sheer charisma while Enjolras was gone. Because while Combeferre certainly shares Enjolras’ passions, he lacks that effortless ease for reeling people in that Courfeyrac possesses in spades.)

So, Enjolras becomes a politician. You would think prison time would bar him from office, and you’d be right, so Enjolras technically becomes speaker for a politician, namely Combeferre. Technicalities.

And the press loves Combeferre a lot, for the succinct tone and the inimitable charm he displays in front of cameras and newspapers alike, despite his openly gay lifestyle.

(After all, what reporter could hate Courfeyrac upon meeting him? ‘ _Meet the new Parisian Political Power Couple’_ , Courfeyrac has the headline pinned on the fridge in commemoration.

“We’re a power couple, Ferre, you see that?”

“I’ve read the article, yes.”

“Which one of us is Beyoncé?”

Combeferre considers this as he sips coffee, “Probably you. If not for your beauty then for the dance moves.”

“Flatterer,” Courfeyrac accuses, though he gives Combeferre a charmed kiss on the nose.

“ _Immitation is the greatest form of flattery_ ,” Combeferre raps distractedly into his coffee cup, to Courfeyrac’s immense delight, before taking off for the hospital he has decided to keep working at for the time being, if with reduced hours.)

Enjolras reluctantly admits that Combeferre is probably the better candidate if they actually want to get something done. (Not least of all because Enjolras is not particularly keen running against his own father in the first place.) Enjolras can be charming, sure, but it takes great effort on his part and most days he prefers to glare or keep a neutral face. Combeferre is a gentle person, but absolutely willing to do what needs to be done.

Like Enjolras had been, when he pushed a police officer off of Jehan to save Jehan’s life and got two years in prison as a consequence, any political ambitions he might have had for himself suddenly foiled. Sometimes he looks at Jehan’s face, where gravel has left his cheeks marked, reminiscent of claws. Sometimes he thinks he should have stepped in earlier. But Jehan is alive, Jehan laughs, Jehan lives his life and that’s worth everything.

There is, of course, good reason for the clause that bars convicted criminals from holding political office, but Enjolras was in the right, in his own opinion. That it took them two years to figure out the cop had a history of violent behavior reflects badly on the state of their police force and the French government. He can’t deny that he used force with the police officer, but sometimes violence is justified. (Combeferre tends to disagree in favor of mediation, but Combeferre has never been in prison. Combeferre has never seen a man stabbed to death with a sharpened toothbrush. Combeferre doesn’t understand everything about Enjolras anymore, and the thought is a sobering one. There are differences where there used to be complete reconciliation.)

Then Enjolras considers that what is important is that their voices are finally being heard. It matters little that his own ambition for recognition goes unsatisfied – he has preached often enough that what they strive for is larger than them – and he really ought to start living according to his beliefs.

(He can’t deny that a part of him wants to go down in the history books though, and though he hates that part of him that seeks glory, it does exist and he can’t will it into the void. Enjolras doesn’t want his achievements to be a footnote in someone else’s story.)

It is just that there remains, within Enjolras, something that leaves him utterly dissatisfied. A longing inside of his chest, stronger than politics and stronger than whatever else crosses his mind. His soul is on fire, burning for brown eyes and a crooked smile.

+

Naturally, when he wants something found out subtly, he goes to Courfeyrac first. Courfeyrac, a bright, pleasant looking fellow with an almost comically large height difference to his boyfriend and kind, warm brown eyes, may not be known amongst their friends as someone who abstains from the vice of gossip, but Enjolras knows that his journalistic integrity means he can be relied on to keep his research between them, when it matters.

(If, that is, one is willing to interpret ‘between them’ as ‘of _course_ I am telling Ferre, that _is_ keeping it between us, Enj’)

It comes as something of a surprise that Courfeyrac refuses to cooperate, crossing his arms and showing considerable muscle mass despite his small proportions.

"No," insists Courfeyrac, obstinate, "Do you want to hear me say it in a different language? How about Russian? Нет. I got some Madagascan for you if you like _: tsy misy_." 

"You’re being ridiculous," Enjolras feels his scowl cement on his face.

" _I’m_ being ridiculous?" Courfeyrac gasps, actually, genuinely shocked, "You’re the one that is asking me to illegally try and sneak information about where your _paramurderer_ was paroled, while we are in the middle of campaigning to get Ferre elected, and somehow _I_ am the one being ridiculous?"

Enjolras hates it when Courfeyrac – whom he considers part of the singular being that came into existence when his two best friends morphed into one love-filled-relationship-creature – makes too much sense to be argued against.

It is selfish of Enjolras to put the entirety of their political schemes at risk just because he misses Grantaire.

So, he scraps the Courfeyrac option and instead tries for Plan B.

+

"What do you mean do I have access to records of other paroled inmates?" Cosette asks with narrowed eyes when he thinks he can subtly ask about it at their last parole meeting. Alright, so subtlety has never been his strong suit, and Cosette is too perceptive by halves. He scraps Plan B and decides on the much dreaded Plan C.

He goes back to the prison.

"I did not expect to ever see your face again, though I have to say it’s the most pleasant surprise I’ve had in months," Montparnasse says through the phone on the other side of the glass. "I missed you too, Angel," the man bats his eyelashes dramatically and puts a hand over his heart when Enjolras scowls from his seat.

"I didn’t come here because - "

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. It is easily dramatic enough to rival Courfeyrac on a good night.

"Like I didn’t know that. Let a man live a little, god, I’m sure you still remember what it’s like in here."

Tense silence for a few moments as they stare at one another and Enjolras remembers warnings from pretty much every inmate to stay away from Montparnasse and Patron Minette. He remembers one of them crowding close to him in the showers before R intervened. Remembers the tender agreement reached afterwards, remembers R’s protection, remembers wanting more from R than he could possibly say, remembers rough hands and soft caresses in the darkness of their cell at night.

He also remembers more than a few pleasant conversations spent with Montparnasse talking about current events, remembers playing against him in chess a few times.

"I’m – Do you know where R was paroled?"

Montparnasse leans backwards in his chair, exhales slowly as he seriously considers it. His fingers are twitchy, and Enjolras is not fooled into thinking the way he is glancing around at the other conversations taking place is without intent, though he makes a good show of it. "I don’t know an exact address, but I can tell you where I’d go if I were him."

The notion that Grantaire and Montparnasse go way back, to Juvie times, is left unsaid as both know. Those two go _intimately_ back. Those two coexisted in prison peacefully for over a decade, through Montparnasse’s rise to power and total takeover and R’s recluse behavior.

If Montparnasse can hazard a good guess as to R’s whereabouts, it’s better than anything else Enjolras can get. So Enjolras nods.

"Alright," Montparnasse looks at his nails, "Tell me about France’s current politics. How’s your dad doing?"

So Enjolras tells Montparnasse about how they’re trying to get Combeferre elected to oust his father from the senate seat, and he watches a smile form on Montparnasse’s face – not exactly cruel, but there is something predatory about it, reptilian almost, that still makes Enjolras uneasy. (It’s not directed at Enjolras, but appears at the thought of getting one-up over his father, the more senior Enjolras, universally hated by those that aren’t upwards of the middle class.) Montparnasse was not incarcerated for murder, but Enjolras does not doubt that Montparnasse prolonged and will keep on prolonging his stay by being responsible for the deaths of certain inmates. Patron Minette has an iron grip on this prison, and it will not be relinquished. (He remembers reiterations muttered by every long-term incarcerate about not being able to function on the outside, and he considers that Montparnasse wouldn’t know what to do with the subsequent loss of his power on the outside.)

"I’ve been meaning to ask – there was that one guy, who tried to attack you," Montparnasse makes a dismissive hand motion. Enjolras knows who Montparnasse means, but they never bothered to learn his name. He was dubbed the Vulture and mostly ignored.

"What about him?"

"He’s due out in a few months, _insurance fraud_ doesn’t get you that long, especially when you’re white," Montparnasse hisses the last word and Enjolras refuses to feel self-conscious in his own body, about what he can’t help, but he has witnessed firsthand the differences in treatment and can only agree. Enjolras has a vague suspicion in regard to where Montparnasse wants to steer the conversation.

"Rumor has it the guy fucked around with child pornography," Montparnasse looks at Enjolras. (And he also knows that when Montparnasse uses the pretext of a rumor, it really means he already knows the truth. “Rumor has it you’re an Enjolras.” He remembers that day.)

"Are you going to kill him?"

"I don’t like getting my hands dirty," Montparnasse says, not denying his intentions in the slightest. What could Enjolras do to foil his plans anyway? "What I want is to see him imprisoned for a lot longer than the meager two years he got. Endangering children is disgusting behavior."

"Is that the favor you want from me?"

"Don’t call it a favor, Angel, you’re doing something for the children, this should be right up your alley," Montparnasse laments with an eye-roll. "I can get access to the library computers and I’ll e-mail you. You said your friend runs a newspaper – you’ll find a way to publish the evidence or you’ll take it to the police."

"That does not seem like a favor to you," Enjolras susses out. Montparnasse shrugs, though he is not as indifferent as he likes to claim.

"I don’t like people fucking with little kids."

Enjolras can read between the lines as he remembers confrontations between R and Montparnasse, civil but cutting to the point. ‘ _The sins of the father should not be visited upon the son’_ , Grantaire had quoted from a book he didn’t believe in. Back then Enjolras had thought Montparnasse backed down because R made sense in general, but perhaps there was something more personal to it.

In any case, Montparnasse is being alarmingly reasonable, and Enjolras respects the Patron-Minette leader to the extent that he does not pry where it is decidedly unwelcome. Montparnasse seems tense.

"Alright," Enjolras agrees.

Montparnasse gives him an address and a name. _Éponine Thenardier_. (A _friend_ that Grantaire never once mentioned during the time they spent together, apparently both Montparnasse and Grantaire know her from _before_. All Enjolras knows is that there’s a grandmother somewhere. Who on earth is Éponine?) Enjolras protests because that’s not how their deals work, but Montparnasse cuts him off.

"There’s no guarantee that R will actually be there, and you’re already inclined to fight the good fight. You can’t stand by while someone gets away with this kind of thing, everyone knows that, so you’ll get it done whether I dangle the proverbial carrot on a stick in front of you or not."

“Thank you,” Enjolras says seriously. Montparnasse winks at him. “Maybe now you’ll come visit me without needing a favor sometime. I get lonely without your riveting conversation.”

+

Enjolras is antsy during the next Wednesday meeting. He can’t even concentrate on the polls which Jehan is presenting with zeal.

(He gets the gist of it – they need to do better. People don’t know who they are. Everyone knows his father, even if they hate him, he has been a constant.)

“Courfeyrac can’t keep running articles about his own boyfriend, that opens up the door to accusations of bias,” Marius throws in. “Cosette knows a few people at _L’Humanité_ , she could ask around if they want to interview you.”

“Do we want an open association with the communist party?” Feuilly considers, “I thought we were presenting Combeferre as reasonably progressive, not radical.”

“All they’d have to do is a little digging into our activist background and they’d see immediately how bullshit the idea of Combeferre as merely progressive is,” Bossuet dismisses, “This guy may not have been convicted of anything, but the police did arrest you three times and that’s on record. You’re just conveniently still the one with the lowest arrest records.”

“Would you say it’s…criminally low?” Joly throws in easily. Musichetta, next to him, snorts. Enjolras really likes her, now that he has had ample time to get to know her. She did come into the group’s path during his incarceration, and he was wary of her at first. But she’s smart – a double degree in political theory and biochemistry prove that, and she’s dedicated to her boys and the cause.

“I’d say the low number is indeed… _arresting_ ,” Bossuet grins at Joly, then continues: “It’s just my opinion here, but I think honesty is the best policy in such matters. It’s not like you got arrested for trying to blow up parliament or something.”

“That certainly would have been _explosive_ news,” Joly nods solemnly.

“Oh, haha, let’s not do the whole bomb jokes thing, yeah?” Feuilly rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, my bad.” Joly concedes.

“That one blew up in your face,” Bahorel whispers across the table, to Feuilly’s despair.

Jehan clears his throat up front. It isn’t exactly odd that people who aren’t Enjolras are advocating for more focus during meetings, but it’s odd that Enjolras isn’t the one doing it while he is very much physically present to potentially do it.

“So we’re in favor of Cosette buttering up _L’Humanité_ , yeah?”

A show of hands confirms it.

“Courfeyrac from what I remember you telling me in college you also know someone at _Le Monde Diplomatique_. Have we considered that?”

“We have considered it, and mostly dismissed it because it’s a monthly thing and there are bigger fish to fry for them than Paris politics. This isn’t exactly world-changing,” Courfeyrac shrugs.

Combeferre makes a humming noise.

“Yeah, okay, I’m willing to pull out all the stops for you. I’ll give it a try,” Courfeyrac amends.

Another hum from Combeferre, who then gives Courfeyrac, seated in his lap, a pleased kiss. Enjolras feels a stab of envy. The paper from prison burns in the hand he has clutched around it.

“Poster design? Feuilly?” Jehan wonders, scratching at the scar tissue on his face as he does all too often these days. Apparently it is itchy.

“None of the initial ones we’ve put out have been defaced, but I think that’s just because Bahorel put them at a height unreachable for teenagers. I’d like to get other ones out there in circulation.”

Another point checked off.

“ _High_ hopes,” Bossuet clucks his tongue.

The meeting carries on.

+

Combeferre sits at the kitchen table and stares at the little piece of paper where Enjolras jotted down the address Montparnasse gave him. To his credit, he looks only skeptical, and shows nothing of the outright horror on Courfeyrac’s face. A few months in politics have done him well.

"You want to go track down Grantaire," Combeferre’s voice sounds odd when he says that name. It doesn’t sound right. When Combeferre refers to Grantaire, he refers to Grantaire the convicted murderer, and not Grantaire the person. It bothers Enjolras.

"Tell him it’s a sucky idea, babe, don’t Combe _spare_ him from the truth," Courfeyrac says from the desk, where he is pouring over the e-mail Montparnasse sent and occasionally muttering phrases like ‘utter outrage’ or ‘the sheer indecency’ or ‘heaven help me’. Needless to say, he plans on publishing the scoop exactly how Montparnasse requested it.

(“If they don’t lock him up longer for it,” Courfeyrac considers, “At least we’ve got iron-clad evidence that the justice in this country is corrupt beyond our wildest dreams. We should have Marius check if this way of gathering evidence is viable though. If it turns out it isn’t, this Montparnasse might face some consequences, even if we as the receiving party don’t.”)

"I’m inclined to agree with Courfeyrac," Combeferre fiddles with his glasses, cleaning them meticulously on his sweater before he puts them on and meets Enjolras’ eye again.

"Are you Brutus, that you would betray me so?" Enjolras glares across the table. It isn’t like Combeferre to side with Courfeyrac just for the sake of siding with him. It makes Enjolras wonder how intensively they’ve discussed his relationship with Grantaire in the safety of their bed.

"He killed someone, Enjolras," Combeferre responds, severely.

"You don’t know him, Ferre," Enjolras insists hotly. "You know nothing about what he’s like. He’s wonderful and kind and a genuinely good person, and if you knew him, you’d -"

"You say that, but you never talk about him. You never talk about your time in prison or what exactly happened and it leaves all of your friends concerned and guessing, and trust me, our imaginations are wonderful, wonderful things-" Courfeyrac has gotten up and returned to the dinner table, emails for the day apparently sent.

“Courfeyrac showed me the trial transcripts he dug up for you, Enjolras. ‘The accused shows no indication of regret nor remorse, refusing to answer questions relating to the nature of his relationship to his mother’s boyfriend, beyond a confession to the murder’, nothing exonerating about that. What am I supposed to think? You keep insisting there is more to it, but you won’t tell us what.”

 _You could just trust me_ , Enjolras wants to say. _You used to do that_.

Here’s the thing: Enjolras can’t talk to them about prison, because they wouldn’t understand. They’d try. Lord knows they’re his best friends precisely for their general tolerance and open-ness when it comes to the world of sociopolitical issues. But prison is different, and to Enjolras it exists in a different compartment, entirely inaccessible to his friends.

There are things he can’t explain.

He could explain that he fell in love with Grantaire after they spent night after night awake talking about anything and everything the man would consent to talk about.

He could explain that he felt safer around Grantaire than anyone else in the world – not because they were in prison but because of how Grantaire treated him. How Grantaire respected boundaries even when Enjolras was begging him to cross them in the heat of the moment.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac do not know R. Courfeyrac has also read the trial files. Courfeyrac was disturbed at the lack of repentance in the teenager back when he first read them, and seems to have left it at that.

So, he goes with the trump card: “He refused parole seven times and stayed in prison to protect me. I’m going to find him." Enjolras glares at the both of them.

They seem to want to say more, but Enjolras denies them the chance. They wouldn’t understand.

+

Calais has never been his favorite city, Enjolras considers as he gets off at the central station and looks around for a cab. He’s been here twice before – both on trips with his father for political touring – and both times he had been met with a constant sense of wetness in the air, and in the weather and in the way rain seemed to cling to every building and seep into every crevice even if the sun happened to be out.

Enjolras is usually predisposed to pleasantly warm and mostly dry climates. Courfeyrac once likened him to a cat in the way he seeks out the sunshine and figuratively hisses at rainclouds.

 

It’s raining now.

 

Enjolras does not hiss, but it is a close thing.

 

But, he concedes, he could get used to Calais, under certain circumstances.

(For the right person he could. The one that hasn’t contacted him in the year or so he has been paroled. He’s choosing to remain optimistic.) 

 

The cab driver finds the address he got with some difficulty, on the vast outskirts of town.

“Bad neighborhood here, my friend,” he shakes his head at Enjolras, looking at his rich red coat with apprehension. “Be careful, yes?”

 

Buildings are huddled together as if they would like to share warmth or shelter in this rain. He doesn’t blame the buildings – then he wonders what the rain is doing to him that he is suddenly empathizing with blocks of concrete. Several floors on top of each other pile up like uneven dish towers in a restaurant on a busy night. The whole street paints a picture of poverty and struggle.  

Enjolras gets out at Number 9, almost the end of the long street stretching into vast expanses of nothingness. There are trees, there are some fields, and in the distance he thinks he sees smoke rising from factories. It isn’t what he’d call quaint, exactly.  

 

He rings the doorbell and elects to ignore the broken part of the door’s window taped over with cardboard.

Feet that sound too light to belong to the two-hundred-pound man he is looking for pad towards the door. It opens. Enjolras adjusts his eyes downwards, where a curious looking young black boy is taking him in with some reservations. He’s a skinny kid, his hair is spilling all over the place, his clothes too large on him.

 

“What’chu want?” The Kid asks, eyes skirting over Enjolras like he is planning something. 

 

“I’m looking for Ahmed Grantaire,” retorts Enjolras, keeping his voice even and professional.

 

“ _Daaaad_ ,” the kid yells into the house, with feeling, “Friend here to see you.” 

 

Enjolras’ stomach lurches something awful. What? 

"I have a switchblade," the kid says pleasantly, staring at him. Enjolras gulps. "In case you were thinking about trying something funny."

 

And then there’s Grantaire, appearing in the doorway and rolling his eyes at the kid. “Go play or whatever, Gav,” he orders. The kid pouts only a little before scurrying away. 

 

Grantaire looks at him. Enjolras considers that he might have made a mistake coming here. R does not look happy. (He would like to say that R looks good, but he really doesn’t, apart from the fact that plainclothes do more for his impressive figure than that horrible orange jumpsuit ever did. Grantaire looks scared of the world, worn-down and defensive, and Enjolras wishes desperately he could do something to take that strain away from the man.)

 

The silence stretches into every bit of air between them, more pervasive than the sound of the rain still pelting Enjolras. His coat is not made to take such downpour forever, and his hair is definitely impossibly drenched by now.

 

“He called you Dad,” Enjolras blurts out. Grantaire cracks a fond grin in the general direction the kid disappeared to, though it quickly disappears.

 

“He’s a little shit. He’s also ten years old. Do the math _, ange_.” 

 

Ah. Grantaire was locked away upwards of fifteen years. It’s unlikely, to say the least. He might have considered it before blurting out weirdly inquisitive statements.

 

“Are you-“ 

 

“Why are you here?” It bursts out of Grantaire, who is starting to look like he might be ill. His fingers are gripping the wood as if he is seriously contemplating slamming the door in his face. Enjolras doesn’t know what he did to deserve that, but Grantaire is not an unreasonable man. There is a cause for this cold reception, and Enjolras needs to know.

So, he goes with the truth.

 

“My parole is up,” retorts Enjolras. “I wanted to see you.” 

 

“You shouldn’t want to,” Grantaire rubs his eyes, “I must have told you a hundred times, _ange_ , you should forget about me, go back to your friends and your blossoming political career. Will you not forget me?” 

 

“You- you know about that?” Enjolras wonders out loud before the pieces click into place. Grantaire doesn’t look guilty, only a little miffed that he gave himself away. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.” 

 

Grantaire says nothing, doesn’t invite him in, doesn’t move. He doesn’t deny it either, and apparently Enjolras’ mind decides that is cause for hope.

 

“Why didn’t you contact me?”

 

“Think your candidate will get any votes if his advisor has a murderer on speed dial?” 

 

“I...” Enjolras stops trying to use words. He steps closer, reaches for Grantaire’s hands. Grantaire doesn’t draw away but he looks pained. 

“I don’t care what you’ve done, R. You’re a good man, I’m in love with you, and I want you to come to Paris with me.” 

It’s a lot of important things he gets out in one or two breaths, but they have to be said. And he means every bit of it. Granted, when he imagined their reunion he imagined it going differently, but contrary to popular belief he is capable of spontaneity occasionally.

 

Silence. Grantaire says: “Why don’t you come in before you go declaring stuff like that out in the open, alright?” 

+

Enjolras removes the drenched jacket on the landing and hooks it onto a rack that is surrounded by muddy footprints on the floor around it, varying in size and severity. He gets the urge to shake his hair out, but resists because he isn’t usually prone to dog-like mannerisms in other people’s houses.

(He still doesn’t know who Éponine is. The kid might not be Grantaire’s biological son, but he did call him Dad.)

"I’ve still got parole left, lots of it," Grantaire says, leading him into the kitchen. The house is not cluttered, but there is ample evidence of more people living there, though he finds no trace of the kid from earlier, who seems to have taken Grantaire’s order to heart and scampered off. "And you don’t know what you’re talking about when you say you want me by your side."

"I’m fairly certain we’ve had actual conversations about you not having the right to say what I do or do not want," Enjolras crosses his arms and notices that Grantaire squats to reach the fridge instead of bending down. He knows that impulse. “If _you_ don’t want me, that’s another matter. But don’t try to push the unwillingness on me.”

"I’m just calling it like I see it," Grantaire shrugs, emerging with a bottle of water he tosses at Enjolras and one with more sugary stuff for himself. The man chews his nails nervously for a while, a new habit, and then continues. "You’ve got your thing back on track, as expected, and that’s great and I’m happy for you. But I’m working twelve hours in construction for six days a week until I inevitably fuck up and land back in prison. You don’t want to deal with that."

Enjolras sees the effects of construction work, he really does, especially in the rather tight t-shirt that stretches across Grantaire’s chest and the hoodie that threatens to come apart under the flex of Grantaire’s biceps. None of these clothes fit the way they’re supposed to, do they?

"You don’t have to go back to prison, R, why do you keep insisting that?"

"Because I don’t function outside of prison, _Julien_ ," Grantaire predictably throws his hands up, "The only reason I’ve not relapsed into the habit of alcoholism they forced out of me when they locked me up is because Ép doesn’t have any in the house as a rule and I’m too poor to get myself properly wasted at a bar. I crave a drink constantly, and if I’m not craving a drink I’m craving cigarettes like you wouldn’t believe. I’m twitchy all the time. Two weeks ago I almost bashed Azelma’s head in because she accidentally hugged me from behind and my body went into automatic defense."

It’s heartbreaking to hear. Because, while Enjolras theorized that getting out of prison must have been much worse for Grantaire than for him, to have the man put it to words with tears pooling in his eyes is so much more damaging. He takes a step towards Grantaire, the movement aborted halfway when he watches the man flinch, shoulders curling inwards – an unusual show of vulnerability.

"You shouldn’t want me, _ange_ , even if you insist you do," Grantaire whispers, looking wretched. “Why won’t you just forget me and leave me to my fate?”

"R," says Enjolras, incapable of forming words that would be enough. How does he make Grantaire see? How can he convince him?

(“I’ve never met someone as convincing as you,” Bahorel had shrugged upon meeting him during a protest, his first year of college, after punching out a guy that had been arguing with Enjolras when he turned to base insults. And still, he can’t convince Grantaire of his own worth, it seems. Courfeyrac, like a Guru of supreme self-confidence, would probably say that it needs to come from within, otherwise the skin is impenetrable to such convictions.)

He gets closer, reaches out to cover one of Grantaire’s shaking hands with his own. It’s still a little cold from the abuse of the rain, but he suspects that isn’t why Grantaire gasps softly. Grantaire burns hot beneath the skin, he always has. "You _deserve_ happiness."

There’s something that sounds like a derisive snort, but also a minute relaxation. Enjolras dares to crowd a little closer, resting his shoulder against Grantaire’s, head tilted to the side. He is gratified when Grantaire’s head meets his halfway – a habit. Their points of contact are minimal, but it still feels like progress.

"You _are_ enough, R," Enjolras whispers. He feels Grantaire squeeze his hand in return. Carefully, Enjolras brings up his second hand, turning into Grantaire. He’s missed Grantaire’s arms, even as they keep their respectful distance while Enjolras finds himself leaning against the kitchen counter bracketed by them. Brown meets blue in a flash of abashed glances.

"You told me I’d be yours as long as I wanted to," Enjolras takes a deep breath, unsure if reminding Grantaire of their time together will backfire or not, "I still want to be yours."

R’s eyes close as if in pain, but he leans forward. Their foreheads connect, and it is but a little thing to tilt and press a hesitant kiss to Grantaire’s lips. They’re softer than he remembers, not as cracked as he had gotten used to. He almost mourns the loss of that defining characteristic, but the softness is inarguably better. He hears himself sigh and melt into Grantaire’s still somewhat hesitant embrace.

"Do you still want me?" Enjolras draws away for breath and hears himself posing the question in a tone of voice that definitely contains more of a seductive note than he planned on – but once more he feels unusually comfortable with spontaneity.

R smiles at him, a careful thing and a rarer thing still, one finger tracing Enjolras’ jawline. "How could I not want every part of you I can get?"

It might be Grantaire that leans in next, or it might be Enjolras, or it might be both of them. The point is that their lips meet and Enjolras feels R’s hesitation slip away. He works at peeling it away, careful to keep things at just kissing, even though what he wants is for Grantaire to spread him out across the counter and have at him. It’s been so long.

He knows Grantaire will not take things further if he does not.

But how to make his intentions clear?

“I…” Enjolras trails off when Grantaire draws away and looks at him, eyes full of expectation and lips slightly swollen. Grantaire is not what anyone would consider classically handsome, but Enjolras looks at him and he thinks that those eyes are the most beautiful specimens he has ever seen.

“Tell me what you want,” R whispers, hands still bracketing Enjolras against the kitchen counter. He wants to stay wrapped in Grantaire forever.

“I want you inside of me,” Enjolras pushes the words out on a single exhale, fighting against his eyes, longing to stare at the floor and not at the flush of Grantaire’s neck.

“You got a condom? Cause I don’t. You know the rules.”

“I do,” Enjolras clears his throat, and he sees just how clearly R wasn’t expecting that.

“Supremely confident in your skills of seducing me, aren’t you?”

“I’d say it’s justified confidence, but yes, I suppose,” Enjolras sets his jaw. “I – I haven’t had sex with anyone since the last time we…”

“Me neither,” Grantaire volunteers, because he knows Enjolras wanted to ask without knowing how to. “You know well though how little I can refuse you.” They understand one another on that level, even past the layers of secrecy Grantaire still wraps himself in.

“So go gentle,” Enjolras whispers against R’s lips, before kissing him again. Grantaire’s hesitance melts away and he lifts Enjolras onto the counter as though he weighs nothing at all, grabbing at him and pressing them together so closely Enjolras considers he might be trying to mold them into one entity. He isn’t opposed – right now he wants to feel every part of Grantaire on him.

And Grantaire is gentle, he always has been with him, in the way he takes ages opening Enjolras up for him. Enjolras feels his fingers shake inside of him, unsure whether the tremor is from nervousness or deprivation, but he’ll ask afterwards. There are tears rolling from Grantaire’s eyes when he finally pushes home, and Enjolras can’t let that slide as easily, so he stops with a hand on Grantaire’s chest, his thumb coming up to dab the tears away. Grantaire’s eyes close again even as he leans into the hand like a man long starved of touch.

“Don’t do this if you don’t want to, R, please, don’t do this just because I want it-” Enjolras pleads.

“I want to,” Grantaire sighs, “I want to so badly. I just can’t believe I get to – _ange_ , you’re…”

“ _I_ am someone who loves you,” Enjolras tells him, seriously, “I meant what I said earlier, please, R, you’re who I want. You have been the only one I want for so long.”

“Yeah, heaven only knows why, but I get that,” R nods, then draws back so he can hit home again. The talking somewhat ceases as both men grapple for more proximity. Grantaire draws it out, he keeps the strokes slow and purposeful until he can’t anymore, lifting Enjolras onto him fully. Legs wrap around Grantaire that don’t feel like they belong to Enjolras anymore, too far removed are they from the point where Enjolras and Grantaire are sheathed together. Enjolras tilts Grantaire’s chin up so that they maintain eye contact, and he feels the entirety of the world around them fade into nothingness. They could be on national television right now, for all Enjolras would notice. All he sees is Grantaire and his beautiful eyes.

It’s over too soon, of course it is.

(Any amount of time would have been too soon.)

It is only in the aftermath that they notice they hardly got undressed. Grantaire’s pants aren’t even shoved down to his knees the way Enjolras’ are. It is a minimal effort to pull them up again. Enjolras seeks out Grantaire’s arms, and they stay in their embrace for what is both forever and nothing at all. Time isn’t something Enjolras can fully comprehend right now.

“I can’t come to Paris with you.” Grantaire’s words float through Enjolras’ curls, he feels the patterns Grantaire’s lips make against them on his scalp.

“I was afraid you’d say that. So I’ll come to Calais, if you like-”

(If this isn’t about the ever-mysterious _Éponine_.)

“No, _ange_ , you misunderstand,” R shakes his head. “My parole isn’t up.”

Enjolras pointedly doesn’t ask how long he’s got left. He can see this as the request for time to figure everything out that it is.

“And you need to be in Paris and help that charming Combeferre cinch the seat away from your father.”

“Are you going to join me once your parole is up?”

Grantaire looks at him evenly for a long time, face closed into that impenetrable mask as they consider one another. Finally, he nods.

“I’ll try.”

+

The first time Grantaire calls him, it is during an ABC general meeting. He mostly only checks his phone because pretty much everyone he is in regular contact with is currently assembled here and so he guesses it might be important. He is up on the stage the Musain lets them use on Fridays, so it is a perfunctory glance, but he sees the Calais number, remembers leaving his contact information for Grantaire to use at his own will, and promptly motions for Courfeyrac to segue into whatever he was going to present tonight. He’s been talking in circles for the last few minutes anyway. If someone really cares, they’ll come up to him and ask him afterwards.

“Bad time?” Grantaire wonders when Enjolras picks up in hushed tones just outside the rooms of the Musain.

“I did say you’re always welcome to call,” Enjolras deflects.

“Which means you were probably in the middle of going off about the inequities inherent in the French education system or whatever,” Grantaire guesses.

“Environmental ramifications of France’s continued use of nuclear power plants,” Enjolras corrects. It makes Grantaire laugh.

“So call me back after the meeting, if you like,” Grantaire offers. Enjolras is fairly happy that no one can see what must be the dopiest smile ever on his face. What that would do for his image as the constantly scowling leader, he has no idea.

Jehan finds him outside as he comes up the stairs from wherever he must have disappeared to during Enjolras’ speech.

“Was I that bad?”

“It really wasn’t bad at all, I promise, dear,” Jehan shakes his head. “I just needed some air, is all.”

“Too many people in one place?”

“Takes me back,” Jehan says in a wistful tone that doesn’t fit the heavy meaning behind the words. “Though I shouldn’t joke when I got off so easily. Bossuet says he’s fine without it, but if he hasn’t got his cane with him every step still hurts him a little.”

“How on earth can you tell that?”

“His chakras are all over the place,” Jehan muses, nodding towards Bossuet. Enjolras furrows his brow. Sometimes Jehan says these things with such conviction that he has trouble figuring out whether he is being joked with. “Also, Joly told me when I asked him about the physical therapy Boss is doing.” Ah, now that, Enjolras can get behind.

“What about your energies though, hm? How have you been feeling?” Jehan wonders, bringing his hand up to caress his cheek tenderly. “You’re missing someone, I can tell. Were you talking to them just now?”

“Sometimes you scare me, Jehan, you really do, because I legitimately can’t tell if you just overheard my phone call or if there actually is something to all the esoteric stuff you practice.”

“Or because Courfeyrac tells me stuff because he loves me,” Jehan adds thoughtfully, still stroking Enjolras’ cheek. It’s…odd, but it’s nice. Jehan’s hands are soft and smell nice, flowery, like roses, they are a comfort.  

“Does he now?”

“Nothing private, love, just about how you keep your door locked at night and seek out his company more than you used to. He’s flattered but concerned. We all are.”

“Ah,” Enjolras frowns.

“It’s okay not to be okay, yeah?” Jehan tells him. Enjolras nods.

“I mean if it isn’t you can always re-align my chakras, can’t you?”

“Come by the store anytime and I’ll sort you out.”

Enjolras snorts.

“You’re joking,” Jehan smiles at him, “That’s good. Just don’t use it to hide your pain.”

As Jehan gives him a kiss on the cheek and slips back inside, Enjolras feels extremely vindicated about stopping that police officer. What would the world be like without Jehan in it?

+

The calls with Grantaire become a regular thing, on a bi-weekly basis. Mostly after Grantaire gets back from work. It reminds Enjolras of the late-night conversation they used to have in their cell after lights out.

One night he finally finds out who Éponine is. She was a few years below Grantaire in school, but until Grantaire’s mother had them move in with her new boyfriend – the one that ended up dead – they were neighbors.

“Éponine just came through the door,” Grantaire says, there’s a breathless 'hi' and the sound of _la bise_ , “She’s very pissed that Gav is so smug about being the only one who saw you. Do you want to maybe prove to her that you exist?”

“Hello, Enjolras,” A voice that is uncommonly low among female tones greets him, suspiciously.

“Éponine,” Enjolras responds, carefully, “Good to meet you.”

“You don’t _sound_ like a criminal.”

“Careful, Ép, he isn’t so good with sarcasm and you’re really quite advanced,” R chides her and Enjolras hears a soft _thwap_ sound and laughter afterwards. It’s nice.

One night, Courfeyrac stumbles into the kitchen while Enjolras is in the middle of one such calls, sleep-deprived and cranky. “Tell your _paramurderer_ that we’ve got a fundraiser in the name of Ferre that you can’t be asleep for tomorrow.”

Grantaire goes eerily silent on the other end. Enjolras tries to glare Courfeyrac down, but Courfeyrac has long become immune to his tactics of intimidation, and those he picked up in prison he is strongly opposed to using on the outside.

“I’m so sorry-”

“He is right, _ange_ , you should go to sleep, I’ve kept you too long,” Grantaire sounds gentle on the other side, but there is sadness in him that Enjolras feels in his own heart like a knife.

+

Sometimes, Enjolras spends the entirety of the general ABC meetings debating with Feuilly once the speeches are done, because he doesn’t want one of their countless new members coming up and flirting with him – it has increasingly become a nuisance now that they are politically active. And while Combeferre has his fair share of admirers – male and female – he also has Courfeyrac situated firmly in his lap more often than not. (“It’s good press coverage, my guy, obviously I’m not going to crawl into his lap while he is giving an interview, but to the one or two reporters that stop by this speaks of settled domesticity and it makes me feel good. Win-win, if you ask me. You should try it.”)

Enjolras has no one into whose lap he can presently crawl, and his fingers are itching towards his phone – just so he can hear Grantaire’s voice and reassure himself that things haven’t changed between them.

“Looks like I’m old news,” Feuilly snorts, stopping short in his purely-theoretical argument about keeping nuclear power plants going if there were a way to safely get rid of the radioactive waste. It’s a thought experiment they do sometimes, argue for something they are opposed to, in hopes of gaining a better understanding of the other side. Bahorel is getting up and heading towards the bar.

“Gnarly nose scars, friend,” he says to someone, “Those definitely weren’t looked after by a proper doctor. You box?” Bahorel is known for jumping into conversations in a characteristically abrasive manner.

He’s about to draw Feuilly back into the conversation, when he hears the response.

“No,” Grantaire says drily, “Prison.”

And when Enjolras turns to look, he really does see Grantaire standing by the bar, sipping a clear liquid Enjolras suspects to be water. He certainly hopes it is.

(Grantaire never said anything about alcohol on the phone, other than occasionally voicing a craving for it, itching in his fingers for it but resisting. He’s been down that path, apparently. There are still many things about Grantaire that Enjolras does not know, will possibly never know.)

“Yikes,” says Bahorel, grabbing a second beer and sitting down next to Grantaire with an engaging grin while Enjolras can only stare. Grantaire is here. In Paris. Grantaire came to an ABC meeting. Grantaire definitely heard his speech earlier. They were on the phone last night and he didn’t even say anything.

(Enjolras thinks he understands. This is Grantaire’s way of scoping out the situation. If he had told Enjolras he would have introduced him to all his friends. He understands why he didn’t want the first interaction with his friends to be ‘this is the guy I fell in love with in prison, you guys’)

Does he go up to Grantaire? Does Grantaire want him to act like they don’t know each other?

He can’t help staring though, and Feuilly notices.

“Alright, come along,” he says, “I’m going to reclaim my man and you’re going to indoctrinate that one into our ways. I have a good feeling about him.”

Bahorel gives Feuilly an enthusiastic kiss with too much tongue for guaranteed public decency and then turns back to Grantaire. “This is my partner, Feuilly,” Bahorel jerks a thumb in the general direction of Feuilly.

Grantaire nods at him. Feuilly nods back. Sometimes, it is that easy.

“And this,” Bahorel claps a broad hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, “Is our fearless leader, Enjolras.”

Grantaire raises his glass of water at him, and Enjolras inclines his head in return. This time, Enjolras can say with conviction that Grantaire looks good, mostly because his beard is trimmed and his hair is brushed properly, the sides shorn and the bulk of it tied in a knot on top of his head. He’s got that whole intimidating presence à la Bahorel down and doesn’t negate it by way of colorful, ducky-print black shirts and bright yellow pants. He’s wearing that same green hoodie Enjolras saw in Calais, but the jeans fit better than the sweatpants he remembers. The t-shirt still stretches obscenely. Enjolras can’t look away. Grantaire’s eyebrows are groomed. Who the fuck did that?

(Nevermind, it was definitely Éponine’s initiative, he realizes.)

“What did you think of the meeting?” Enjolras asks. Bahorel snorts.

“Leave it to you to get right back to politics,” he says, then turns back to Grantaire: “I mean it about the boxing thing though. Here’s the gym card. You should come by.”

“I think I will, thank you, time I got back into it,” Grantaire looks at the card until Bahorel and Feuilly excuse themselves. “There are a lot more people that show up to your ‘college group meetings’ than you implied.”

“Way more since I got out, the numbers have almost tripled while I was away. And out of the dozens still here, of course you managed to catch the interest of one of my closest friends.”

“You’ve told me about Bahorel,” Grantaire considers, “You’re right – he is a large guy. Didn’t expect the yellow pants.”

“No one ever does,” Enjolras smiles.

“Am I supposed to act like I don’t know you?” Enjolras fiddles with his own drink – Shirley Temple because he _likes_ those, fuck off Courfeyrac, the Ginger Ale flavor is delicious – because the silence between them feels awkward in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. He gets that R is feeling ill at ease here, but Grantaire came to Paris. For him. He really just wants to wrap himself up in the whole of him and breathe him in. Kiss him, maybe, if that’s alright with Grantaire. (He really doesn’t know if it’s alright.)

“I wanted to see for myself what your friends were like. Without having them judge me first,” Grantaire admits, taking a long sip that is mostly a distraction. He looks uncomfortable.

“How was Bahorel?”

“Very non-judgemental, but then again I didn’t say: ‘hey man, ya, totally in prison for murder, dude. What’d’ya think of that?’”

He does a good impression of Bahorel. It's commendable, really.

“Where are you staying?” Enjolras asks. The conversation still feels severely stilted. Mostly he can’t quite believe Grantaire is really here. He can’t quite reach out to test that theory though, not with all the eyes he feels on his back.

(It doesn’t happen often that Enjolras isn’t frowning while talking to someone. He shudders to think how morbidly fascinating his friends must consider the genuine smile around his lips.)

“Motel, for now,” Grantaire says, “I’ve got to be honest everything inside of me wants to run back to Calais.”

“Everything?”

“It _is_ good to see you, _ange_ ,” Grantaire’s face softens a little. Enjolras exhales, relieved. “All the wild drinking going on around me isn’t doing much good for me or my state of mind though.”

“Enjolras!” Bossuet comes up beside him, Joly trailing one step behind, “Did you hear Ferre is now just behind your father in the polls? _The time?_ Near. _The blood in my veins_? Stirred. My dick? Also sti- Oh, hello, who is this?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, unsure what to say. What does R want him to say?

“Apparently I’m your newest recruit, your leader can be very persuasive,” Grantaire extends a hand. Bossuet grabs it cheerfully.

“That he can be,” a wink, “Call me Bossuet, or L’Aigle if you prefer. This is Joly, he’s grand.”

Joly too extends his hand, pleasantly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Grantaire,” he shakes the proffered hand, “But I go by R.”

(No one but Combeferre and Courfeyrac know that name, but they’ll find out sooner or later. This isn’t a secret he can keep, nor does he particularly want to.)

Joly and Bossuet engage Grantaire in conversation immediately, and they seem to get on well. All too soon though, someone else demands his attention in conversation and he is forced to abandon Grantaire, who waves him off.

Feuilly comes to stand next to him again, Bahorel on Enjolras’ other side.

“He’s built, isn’t he?” Bahorel grins, “Bet he could lift you up like nothing.”

Enjolras snorts, has a sip of his drink, “Definitely.” He might be blushing a little.

“Oh, you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? You dirty little freak, you,” Bahorel nudges him in the side with his elbow. Enjolras doesn’t comment, and instead watches Grantaire settle into the conversation with Joly and Bossuet more easily. Musichetta is busy somewhere else talking to girls he hasn’t seen before. (New recruits, maybe? Having her in the ABCore has done a lot for the female percentage in their general group as well. He’ll consider asking Marius about having Cosette join as well, now that they’ve made things official.)

“Can’t imagine he’d be opposed to that,” Feuilly grins, “Look at him, he’s blushing.”

+

Grantaire meets him in the city the next day, wearing the same clothes as last night but looking like he had a shower in between. (Enjolras realizes just how little clothes he must have that fit. Even Enjolras, who is still slight, doesn’t fit in the clothes he wore at fifteen. And Grantaire doesn’t come from the kind of money that can just buy an entire wardrobe after getting out of prison. Enjolras could. But how does one offer that kind of thing?)

“How’d you like Bossuet and Joly?”

“They’re grand, they appreciate my puns,” Grantaire shrugs, in a way that makes it clear he feels largely uncomfortable around his friends. Enjolras doesn’t blame him. They are a lot, at first.

“They do love puns,” Enjolras nods along awkwardly. “Coffee?”

Grantaire nods, still looking queasy.

The cups are steaming in front of them by the time Enjolras speaks up again. “I hope you know how much I appreciate what you are doing. I know leaving everything behind and coming here isn’t easy-”

“Not like I got any friends besides Éponine,” Grantaire dismisses, muttering the words into his coffee.

“Still,” Enjolras insists, reaching forward and covering Grantaire’s hand with his. It always starts like that. “Thank you.”

“What exactly are you thanking me for?” Grantaire sighs, “That I’m about to cause problems between you and your friends once they find out who I am? Because I’m not keen on joining your group with ambitions to _change the world_ , if that is what you thought.”

“That you’re still willing to give us a chance,” Enjolras corrects, with an arch of his eyebrow. Grantaire huddles in on himself.

(As for caring about politics instead of being snide about it…well, they’ve got time, don’t they?)

“I need a cigarette.”

+

Courfeyrac’s head snaps up quicker than anything when Bahorel’s unfortunately loud voice booms: “R, you came back! That’s great, come sit by me.” It’s been a week, and Enjolras has met up with Grantaire twice more since. Possibly those walks across Paris are what motivated Grantaire to swing by again. Enjolras definitely hopes so.

“Is it cool if I hug you hello?” Bahorel, for all his size and brawn, is a very considerate person. Grantaire nods and they bro-hug it out. Feuilly follows suit. Bossuet and Joly stroll in with Musichetta and also sit by them. (Usually policy dictates that general meetings mean the core should split up, mingle, and shape opinions, Fridays are the ‘work’ meetings after all, but Grantaire is apparently not just a distraction to Enjolras' state of mind.)

“Chetta, this is R,” Joly motions to introduce them excitedly. “He’s the pun master we told you about.”

“They’re in love with you already,” Musichetta informs him with a smile, “You wouldn’t be plotting to replace me, now would you?”

“But why would anyone replace platinum with nickel?” Grantaire shows her a crooked grin that is both charming and self-deprecating, and Musichetta seems torn between flattery and wanting to assure him that she certainly thinks he’s definitely got something going on without causing raised eyebrows.

By the end of the night Jehan seems to have found Grantaire as well, and Enjolras doesn’t get the opportunity to talk to him at all, much to Feuilly’s teasing delight. “I could invite him to come to Courfeyrac’s ‘chillaxation’ on Monday,” he offers, sipping his beer.

“He’s not part of the core though,” Courfeyrac pipes up, looking a little agitated. Combeferre is off somewhere with a journalist and thus cannot agree, but he probably would.

“So? Enjolras is into him, how often does that happen? Cosette joins in pretty much all the time as well.”

Feuilly pauses for a second.

“Oh my god, Courfeyrac, are you jealous?”

“That is the last thing I am,” Courfeyrac wrinkles his nose. “I’m just saying, Feuilly, we don’t even know this guy.”

“Speak for yourself, I’ve watched him and Bahorel box twice now. You’d think so too if you bothered to talk to him.”

Courfeyrac does look a little intrigued now, but then decides to go talk to Musichetta and her girls instead. Jehan comes towards them with Grantaire in tow.

“I’m going to go show him the Parisian catacombs. You want to join?”

“Me?” Clarifies Enjolras, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s romantic,” Jehan says importantly, and apparently Enjolras is very obvious in how he feels about Grantaire.

“Capital R Romantic, maybe, if that,” Grantaire pipes in.

“We should call you Capital R,” Jehan realizes, eyes wide. He turns back to Enjolras for a second: “So that’s a no from you?”

When he asks Bahorel a second later, his response is more enthusiastic. “Bet,” he says, “I’m going to punch all those ghosts dead for you, Jehan. Dead- _er_.”

(It just so happens that, at nine and a half arrests, Bahorel also has the highscore amongst the core. The half-arrest, he insists, is because they had the handcuffs on him already and he got away anyway. Bossuet, unlucky that he is, follows closely with seven arrests but no convictions. “Your conviction really should catapult you above me though, chief,” Bahorel had said when the topic came up recently. It had made everyone laugh. It’s good that they’re getting to a point where they can joke about it.)

“I better make sure he has back-up for the ghosts,” Feuilly shakes his head and gives Enjolras a kiss to the cheek.

(He gets a tired call from Grantaire at around three AM that wakes him up, but it’s fine, because Grantaire sounds less reluctant and happier than Enjolras has heard him in a while when he tells him that Bahorel did a valiant job keeping all the ghosts away from them. “I see why you like them, _ange_ ,” he says. And that means more to Enjolras than he can possibly say.)

+

It ends up being Jehan that brings Grantaire to ‘chillaxation’ on Monday, because R apparently helped him close up shop. (Also, R is carrying a whole bag full of second-hand books Enjolras suspects he is very happy about.)

“Marius,” Jehan says, “Did you know R speaks seven languages with acceptable fluency? Converse!”

Grantaire and Marius don’t actually have many languages in common, but Marius expresses an interest in learning Arabic and Grantaire expresses admiration for anyone taking on Mandarin, and just like that they’re embedded in conversation. (He’s talked to Enjolras about that, about how he is scared that prison might have dumbed him down in terms of communication, but he seems to be handling himself well. “I’ve got my _bac_ , and all that jazz, but it took me four years in prison to get it, and I’ve got nothing else to show for it.”)

Cosette joins in as well, and Grantaire knows that she was Enjolras’ parole officer so he seems tenser with her than anyone else, initially, but the outward show of it at least fades away rather quickly.

“How’s his aura, Jehan?” Enjolras asks when he finds himself with a lapful of redhead.

“You say that to mock me, but you’re genuinely curious what I have to say about the subject.”

“Lay it on me,” Enjolras prods.

“Prison clipped his wings,” Jehan sighs, “He would have been a beautiful bird, Enjolras. But- So many feathers that will never grow back right.”

“You’re high,” Enjolras states, flatly.

“Ya.” Jehan smiles at him, tapping his temple twice and winking at him.

+

Grantaire shows up at two more meetings before waltzing into the one after that with Bahorel, apparently freshly returning from boxing.

“I don’t know what to tell you, but R can put me on my ass like no one else,” Bahorel grins when Jehan inspects his slightly blue jaw with concern. R himself has a split lip but nothing else. They’re both looking more at ease with one another. That’s good.

“Good to see you,” Enjolras interjects into the conversation, much to everyone’s surprise. Grantaire’s smile is tentative and more crooked than usual. “Yeah, you too.”

He doesn’t miss the excited chatter amongst the lieutenants at that display. He just chooses not to engage.

+

“You should come to ABCore on Monday again,” Enjolras tells Grantaire as they are walking along the Seine on Saturday morning.

“I should, huh?” Grantaire is tense next to him, still unsure how to act around Enjolras. For the most part he lets Grantaire decide the physicality of their interactions, but once or twice he has stolen a kiss on the cheek, and Grantaire hadn’t seemed to mind. Maybe this is pushing it, but: “You’ve been in Paris for more than a month now. You’ve talked to all of my friends.”

“I have talked neither to Combeferre nor to Courfeyrac, and I suspect they’d prefer to keep it that way, especially since they clearly know who I am.”

“You don’t _have_ to come, R, of course you don’t,” Enjolras sighs, “But it feels like I’m hiding you from them and I don’t want to do that.”

“I might have guessed,” Grantaire snorts, “ _Of course_ you want to meet the opposition head on.”

They come to a stop, glancing at one another.

“I’m going to kiss you, if that’s alright with you,” Enjolras announces, and follows through after Grantaire’s nod. It still feels like coming home, to sink into Grantaire’s arms and kiss until he can’t breathe anymore.

When Grantaire pulls away there is a smile playing around his lips and a comment on his tongue about how they should cut this short lest he should freeze to death in his hoodie. (Enjolras thinks about buying him a coat and doesn’t know how to bring it up without making things awkwardly obvious that he knows how much Grantaire is struggling without a job or proper accommodation. Apparently when he said Motel he really meant hostel room with up to nineteen other people. They need to find a different solution to that, soon.)

+

Monday, before the meeting starts, Enjolras gets food with Grantaire – and insists on paying for it – so that they arrive at Marius’ place together. They end up running a little late because Enjolras gets a bit of sauce on his face and that leads to a twenty minute distraction of kisses he doesn’t mind at all.

“Hey, R,” Bahorel claps him on the back good-naturedly, “Nice of you to join us again. Water for you?”

“Please,” Grantaire’s voice sounds hoarse. He’s nervous. His fingers release a slow trickle of the tension his body holds in their tremors.

Everyone is giving them sly looks. Jehan is telling Courfeyrac about how it was only a matter of time before Enjolras found someone he actually liked. Courfeyrac is perceptive though. He and Combeferre are the only ones who had been told Grantaire’s name, and they’ve likely figured it out, even if they haven’t said anything.

“Yes, you all guessed correctly, Grantaire is with me,” Enjolras clears his throat, hand reaching blindly to intertwine with Grantaire’s. “We’re together.” Bahorel looks like he’s about to wolf-whistle.

“There’s something I haven’t been telling you though, mostly because I didn’t want to draw judgement where there should be none, but also because I wasn’t sure I’d see him again. Grantaire and I fell in love in prison almost two years ago.”

The wolf-whistle dies on its way out from Bahorel’s throat. Combeferre and Courfeyrac mostly look resigned to have their suspicions confirmed, everyone else looks confused.

“Why the _heck_ didn’t you say anything?” Jehan crosses his arms, looking reproachfully at Enjolras. “Don’t think I blame you for this, R, sweetie, but all of us were under the impression that Enjolras met you when we did.”

“Not all of us,” says Combeferre, getting up to get himself a glass of water as well, checking with Courfeyrac for a beer.

Grantaire keeps silent, tension is written into every part of him. Which, Enjolras considers, is fair, because these are Enjolras’ friends and he’s already been feeling like he is on trial here for too long.

“I’ve been met with opposition on the topic before,” Enjolras says evenly, not looking at Courfeyrac and Combeferre, freshly returned from the kitchen with refreshments. He doesn’t have to, really, because everybody in the room is smart enough to know who out of those present might have been informed beforehand.

(He catches Jehan giving Courfeyrac a look that he interprets as: ‘we’re going to have Words about this, young man’ and feels grateful to have some support at least.)

Grantaire is dragged off into the kitchen with Bahorel and Feuilly, and that leaves Enjolras in something of an awkward staring match with Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Where is he staying?” Courfeyrac asks, after a while. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta have also sensed the tension and joined the others in the kitchen. It’s impractical – the living room is clearly bigger – but he appreciates the consideration.

“Motel,” Enjolras answers, tersely. Grantaire has been refusing to let Enjolras pay for it with the money he is still veritably swimming in, and he suspects the man’s funds are close to running out. (There were a few vague words about his grandmother passing away last Christmas and him being to sole benefactor of the will, but even that can’t last forever. And Grantaire accuses _him_ of seeking martyrdom when they get into it, the nerve.)

“ _Bullshit_ he’s doing that for even a day longer,” Courfeyrac snorts, seemingly doing the math in his own head, “Tell him to take our spare room.”

“ _Now_ you’re supportive?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t do us the disservice of claiming we don’t at least try to see your perspective.” Combeferre shakes his head. “Let’s try to get to know him, alright? Enjolras, your judgement is usually sound, but you understand why we are reluctant, yes?”

“I concede that on paper it looks suspicious, but if you really believed my judgement to be sound you would take my word for it.”

“You’re the one that says individual opinion must always be formed independently.” Courfeyrac points out and Enjolras hates how good that guy has gotten at arguments since High School ended. (He doesn’t hate it, not at all, he just wishes they could see Grantaire like he does.)  

+

Grantaire moves into the spare room – at his own behest, Enjolras had offered they share his bed – and the first few nights they have dinner together he is almost entirely non-verbal at the table as Courfeyrac powers through the events of his day and Combeferre tries to figure out when he should quit his job at the hospital in favor of political pursuits.

“Thank you for dinner,” he tells Combeferre politely, who nods politely in turn. It all feels rather stilted.

Grantaire doesn’t touch him at all if those two are in sight, and keeps things chaste even if they are out of it. It reminds Enjolras painfully of high schoolers sneaking around their parents, even as said parents are comfortable not restraining their physical affection at all.

They forget to lock the bathroom door one morning, and unlocked doors, to Grantaire and Enjolras at least, mean entry is allowed. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are a little flustered to be found _in flagranti_ , but Grantaire is not fazed.

(The things Grantaire has seen in shower stalls, the things he has _done_ in shower stalls, far outweigh that little bit of intimacy.)

And still, Grantaire will not touch him.

+

“When I said you should visit me again I didn’t think you’d take me up on it,” Montparnasse smirks through the glass separating them.

“Are you complaining? I can leave.”

“No, no,” Montparnasse waves a flighty hand around. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to tell you I found R,” Enjolras shrugs. “He’s in Paris. He is living with me and my roommates.”

“Congratulations,” Montparnasse muses. “You don’t seem happy.”

“He doesn’t feel accepted by them and they make little effort to make him feel welcome mostly because they’re suspicious of his intentions. I’ve been thinking about moving out, but I’m not sure the increased isolation would go over well with either side.”

“You’re not asking for advice, are you?”

“I didn’t want you to feel lonely,” Enjolras scowls, “Thought you might like to know.”

He regrets coming here just a little bit.

“I do appreciate it,” Montparnasse grins. “Why don’t you tell R to come my way some time?”

“If he wants to say hi to you he will.”

They talk for just about thirty more minutes. (Enjolras learns from a hard-set jaw that the Vulture got three more years. “Three, Angel. _Three_. I gave them enough evidence to keep him in here for the rest of his life and they give him three. I hate white people.”)

+

“So, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac clears his throat at dinner a few weeks later, “I understand you still don’t have a job?”

Grantaire stops eating, frozen at being addressed directly for a change.

“Was my rent short?”

“Uh…no,” says Courfeyrac, confused. He doesn’t understand that Grantaire reads an accusation into that where there was none. He and Grantaire orbit different styles of conversation that rarely if ever overlap. Courfeyrac, when keeping things professional, tends to fall into the ‘good-old-boy’-talk he and Enjolras both learned from their fathers. Grantaire, on the other hand, has almost no practice in implications being positive things instead of veiled threats. “I meant to-”

“He wants to offer you a job interview as a source translator,” Combeferre explains.

“Marius says you’re very good, and we don’t really have someone to do it and have mostly been doing it commission-based,” Courfeyrac explains hastily.

Grantaire’s face doesn’t change, but the surprise is evident in his eyes if you know to look for it. Enjolras does. He thinks R is reluctantly pleased.

+

Grantaire’s presence at Monday meetings becomes integral, and Enjolras thinks he fits in well, even if there remains some reluctance on his part.

(He keeps thinking about that bird statement Jehan had made when he was high, and can’t get it out of his mind. Prison did steal something from Grantaire, Enjolras thinks, but he can’t imagine a Grantaire before prison, much less a Grantaire without prison at all.)

“We should get you some more clothes, man, you’re always wearing the same three things,” Bahorel says one night, and Enjolras watches Grantaire tense, but nod.

“You’re right, makes me look sloppy, doesn’t it? This isn’t even mine, it’s my friend’s father’s old one.” Grantaire says of the t-shirt.

“We gotta change that, R,” Bahorel insists. “I happen to have a firm grasp on fashion.”

“By that he means he has a firm grasp on the lid of the trashcan where he gets his pieces from,” Feuilly interjects and Bahorel elbows him in the side.

On the way home Enjolras and Grantaire trail a few steps behind Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and Grantaire doesn’t seem less tense.

“It’s obvious to me that I don’t fit in, and still you won’t give up on me,” Grantaire sighs when pressed. Enjolras shakes his head.

“You fit with me, R,” he says, “Isn’t that enough?”

Grantaire interlaces their fingers and says nothing.

+

“Grantaire, you know they won’t say anything if you wanted to touch me, right?” Enjolras asks him in the kitchen one morning, while Combeferre and Courfeyrac are out getting breakfast together at Courfeyrac’s favorite place and Grantaire just diverted a kiss on the lips to his cheek.

(“Breakfast dates are essential when your significant other works a job that has shitty hours,” Courfeyrac had shrugged once upon a time when Enjolras asked.)

“They might not say anything but they’ll think it,” Grantaire says, turned away from Enjolras. “They’d think I was using you or corrupting you or whatever, and they wouldn’t even be wrong, really,” Grantaire is gripping the counter and keeping his eyes firmly away from Enjolras.

That won’t do.

Enjolras steps closer, runs his hands up Grantaire’s back, kisses his neck. Grantaire is tense but he lets it happen. A sigh leaves his lips.

“Ignoring the fact that what you just insinuated is complete horseshit,” Enjolras whispers, “What about if I corrupt you?”

“I’ve never had something up my ass before,” Grantaire says, clearing his throat and turning around, as if by putting his ass to the counter he can put the idea out of Enjolras’ mind.

“Then we’ll stick with what we’ve been doing,” Enjolras assures him, immediately.

“You mean what we’ve done a single time?” Grantaire’s lip twitches. The mirth in his eyes is a beautiful thing. He likes it when Grantaire teases him, it makes the entire room feel lighter, it makes him forget that they’re both marked by the events of their lives.

“What we should be doing all the time?” Enjolras suggests. Grantaire chuckles, and has another sip of coffee. “I’m serious, R,” he says, “You’ve walked in on those two how many times now?”

“Plenty,” Grantaire agrees, “But neither of them have killed or been to prison.”

“You’ve really got to stop saying that as though it means you don’t deserve happiness.”

“I am happy. I get to see you every day.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want to change anything about our current situation?”

“I don’t want to be the rift between you and your two closest friends. I’m not worth that.”

“Don’t say that,” Enjolras scowls, pressing against Grantaire. “You are worth everything.”

Grantaire kisses him then. Enjolras suspects it is partly out of a desire to shut him up. Grantaire doesn’t like being told things that directly conflict with how he feels about himself. He has trouble believing that. So Enjolras kisses him all the harder for it.

“Touch me, R, come on, please,” Enjolras gasps into his mouth, unable to press himself closer but wanting to, wanting to so badly. Grantaire’s hands are broad and they comply, wrapping one leg around his waist and grinding. More. Enjolras kisses him harder, cups his face, gets lost in the taste of him. Coffee, mostly, but also a remainder of the nicotine from the cigarette he snuck earlier on the balcony, underlying notes of something wonderful that makes Grantaire insanely special to Enjolras.

“Yes,” Enjolras hisses on a particularly great upward thrust that makes him spark up all over.

It is rather unfortunate that Combeferre and Courfeyrac take that moment to enter, because Grantaire freezes on the spot. Enjolras can feel the lock of his muscle, the tremor in his hands the only movement, because he can’t control that. It is how Grantaire’s insecurity bleeds out of him for everyone who catches it to see.

Combeferre politely averts his eyes, but Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow at them and then pushes past them to put something in the fridge.

“Bedroom?” Enjolras whispers loud enough for everyone to hear. Grantaire allows himself to be led.

Two days later Grantaire has his job interview and is hired. Despite his insistence that it is no big deal, he goes out celebrating with Joly and Bossuet, but comes back sober. (“They know I don’t actually want a drink even if I say I need one. We had like _seven_ Shirley Temples they insisted on paying for and then played the most awkward round of Never Have I Ever.” Grantaire says, but Enjolras gets the feeling that it wasn’t half as awkward as he claims. Grantaire just likes to downplay his happiness because he thinks if he voices it, the source of it will inevitably be taken away.)

Things get easier afterwards, when the first few days of the job go well, and even easier once the first paycheck is securely on Grantaire’s bank account.

+

Things get worse again when Combeferre debates with Enjolras’ father – and two other possible candidates – at a political meeting.

It goes well for a while, Combeferre valiantly manages to answer everything in a smooth, convincing voice, and that’s when Enjolras’ father starts playing dirty. (Like most conservative politicians, Enjolras’ father gets his voters based on personal beliefs instead of actual conservative economics. Abortion rights, criminal punishments, faith, milking the backlash for all it is worth. Enjolras has schooled Combeferre in that and he knows that they’re prepared for him to take it there. They’ve done everything they can, and now it’s up to Combeferre. What a thrill it is, to see his best friend of over two decades standing on a stage with an actual shot to move into the Senate, fielding questions expertly.)

“…Candidates associating with the vilest of criminals, like Mr. Combeferre.”

“Mr. Combeferre?” The moderator asks, furrowed brows heavy in her well made-up face, “A comment on that?”

“I would like to point out that the criminal he accuses me of associating with is Mr. Enjolras’ son, whom I have known since the first grade and who was incarcerated for saving another friend of mine from undue police violence.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, that is not to whom I am referring,” Senator Enjolras protests, “This man runs around with murderers. God only knows what those people are whispering into his ear as they are urging him to drag our beautiful country to ruin.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath on stage. Enjolras wants to get up there and give his father a piece of his mind. But it’s always been like talking against a wall. Combeferre is better at getting to his father.

“Mr. Combeferre, would you like to comment?”

“Yes, please,” Combeferre says, looking at Grantaire for a second, apologetically and quickly enough that no one but Grantaire and Enjolras seems to notice. “I would like to point out that I believe legislation passed in favor of harsher punishments for crimes of passion often ignores the fact that in such cases the perpetrator can, due to biological reasons, see no other way at the time. While certainly it is necessary to assure we come down on those who break the law, individual cases are much more complex than they seem and our judiciary system tends to overlook such things if the accused is not white.”

“He’s defending a murderer, are you hearing this?”

“Senator Enjolras, you were not asked for a follow-up comment. Would you like to make one?”

“He wasn’t finished,” someone – Bahorel – yells from the crowd.

“Let him finish,” Musichetta throws in from the crowd as well. Her voice carries nicely – Bossuet says she sings well enough to rival any opera star.

“You are talking about a young man that defended himself against his family’s abuser and atoned for it by spending over fifteen years in prison with an exemplary report of conduct and a consistent record of self-improvement whom I’ve come to know and respect over the past months. If we ostracize such people for the rest of their lives we give them no way of re-integrating into society. And if we can’t offer them second chances as they prove themselves worthy of them, it is we who are failing them.”

Combeferre’s voice is calm as he continues. Next to Enjolras, Grantaire looks horrified. His hands are shaking like never before. He takes Grantaire’s hands, meaning to offer comfort.

“Furthermore, the reports from that time say the police were repeatedly called to said household, both mother and son had extensive hospital records, which I, as a medical professional, can assess quite well and deem uncharacteristic in relation to the risk factors of their daily lives, but the police never made any arrests, child protective services came and left again and again, claiming not to have found anything. There is no excuse for murder, but there is a moral obligation to show someone forgiveness if they prove themselves repentant. You, Senator Enjolras, as a professed Christian, have said so yourself multiple times and I can’t imagine why you would go back on your word now unless you have reasons to exclude certain people from God’s forgiveness, when the Lord himself would not.”

This is news for Enjolras, and he feels Grantaire’s hand squeeze his as he stares at Combeferre. He did his own digging, apparently, more effectively than Courfeyrac could have ever done. Sometimes Enjolras is in awe at the extent of what Combeferre can find out through medical records.

“Preposterous. There was no evidence of abuse presented at the trial,” Senator Enjolras blusters, after having one of his aides whisper into his ear.

“The Senator should know that when the perpetrator was imprisoned he suffered from three kicked in ribs that had torn into his right lung, defensive wounds on his hands, welts inflicted by a belt on his back, as well as showing evidence of many more badly treated cuts and broken bones.” Combeferre states professionally, “Such wounds are consistent with what we know of child abuse patterns in the medical profession. I don’t know why the Senator was ignorant of this, as it was made public during the trial but mysteriously dismissed as possible evidence of defense. You seem too well-versed in the events of seventeen years ago to forget this fact. That is all I have to say on the matter, if we may please return to politics?”

Grantaire rips his hand away from Enjolras during this and swiftly leaves the room in complete silence. Jehan stares after him from his seat next to Enjolras, concerned. Enjolras itches to go after him, but Jehan puts a hand on his hand. “Ferre needs you here for him too. He keeps looking at you.”

“But R…”

“He needs time to process that we just found out something he didn’t want us to know. Give him that.”

“I’m not done with this,” Senator Enjolras argues on stage, face red, “The murder victim had eight stab wounds in his pelvic and abdominal area. Eight times isn’t an accident. That shows premeditation.”

“It really doesn’t, Mr. Senator,” Combeferre speaks into the microphone, still calm. “When reviewing the cuts the presiding coroner at the time determined that none of the wounds would have been fatal on their own, as the victim later died of exsanguination, belying the assumption that the perpetrator knew what he was doing or consciously chose to attack such points. Had the intent been murder instead of cessation of violence against the perpetrator, the heart or lungs would have been far more likely targets and would have both assured suffering in case of sadistic intent as well as death. As it is, when in danger, the body chooses quite randomly between flight, fright or fight, and in this case it chose fight. It is quite common that the intense concentration of epinephrine and norepinephrine in the blood stream when in danger means the body will not stop until the threat has been eliminated or until it gives way to exhaustion. Furthermore, reports of the time report an ambulance call placed and EMTS place the perpetrator hovering over the victim, pleading for forgiveness and attempting to put pressure on the wounds, putting initial murderous intent out of the question. Nothing to add, Ladies and Gentlemen, please do continue with questions.”

As Courfeyrac, next to Jehan, puts his head in his hands, Enjolras belatedly comes to the realization that his defense of Grantaire might have lost Combeferre the election just now. Grantaire seems to have realized it as well, long before Enjolras, when he left the room.

+

“You never told me he hurt you as well,” Enjolras doesn’t really know what else to say when he finally finds Grantaire outside of the building, frustrated by his cigarette and shaking. It doesn’t rain too often in Paris, but of course he forgets his coat on the days it does. Typical. Grantaire doesn’t seem to realize, his hair is drenched and his eyes are closed against the downpour, but he does make a valiant attempt with his lighter at keeping his cigarette alive.

“They told me that if I told them he’d been abusing us my mother would be facing prison time for negligence, and at fifteen I believed them because I was just a dumb kid who knew nothing about the law. So I refused to submit my wounds as evidence and told them that I’d killed him and refused to say anything more.”

Grantaire takes a deep drag of his cigarette, tears shimmering in his eyes.

“She killed herself a year later, after her boyfriend’s brother paid her a visit. So in the end I couldn’t help her either way.”

“You told me it was premeditated,” Enjolras says, uselessly.

“I should have killed him years earlier. Thought about it probably a thousand times, but back then I waited, you know? There were always those ads in school or in toilets about child abuse hotlines or whatever. Kept calling those, but it never mattered. He’d just tell them it’d been a prank call and act all apologetic, or if they happened to see me injured, he’d pay them off. He was disgustingly charismatic. It never mattered. Never stopped, you know the deal. You told me some stuff about your mother that you remember.”

“That was never…”

“Verbal abuse is abuse just the same,” Grantaire shrugs. “Course your Dad loved her, or claims he did, because that made her so much easier to manipulate.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, then continues: “He’s right to bring it up though. It’s smart. I’d probably do it too if my polls were down and I needed something to discredit my opponent.”

“Stop it,” Enjolras says, moving to take Grantaire’s hands. Grantaire has tears in his eyes.

“I’m poison for the change you seek, Enjolras,” Grantaire pleads with him, “Forget about me, please. Let me go back to Calais and try to forget about everything that has been wonderful about the years with you.”

“Is that what you want, Grantaire?” Enjolras wonders, feeling tears prick behind his eyelids now as well and aware that there might be reporters listening in. “If you want to leave because you can’t take being with me anymore, then I’ll let you go. But if you want to do this out of a misguided attempt to cinch Combeferre the seat after all, I’m begging you, _please_ don’t. There are people here who love you, not just me, but me especially. Combeferre chose to defend you, Grantaire. That was his choice and he knew while doing it that it might not come across well with voters. He did it anyway because it was the right thing to do, because you deserve to have someone defending you, R, do you understand me?”

R, in the pouring rain, doesn’t even much look like he is crying, but his whole body is shaking and he looks miserable as he stares up at Enjolras.

“Do you understand how much I love you?” Enjolras whispers, grabbing Grantaire’s face and diving in, kissing him even as their clothes soak through completely. He tastes tears as their lips connect, the salty tang of them, tastes a faint trace of blood where Grantaire’s lip is split from his teeth mistreating it. Grantaire holds onto him, weak, like a lifeline and Enjolras kisses and kisses him until he feels the cold from the rain on his skin even past the multiple layers of clothing.

“Don’t leave me if you don’t actually want to, R, please,” he pleads once more. Grantaire nods.

“I need-”

“Yes, whatever you need, R,” Enjolras says, kissing him again.

(Turns out what Grantaire needs is time. He doesn’t go out for drinks with the ABCore that night, and he is sorely missed. At home, Enjolras watches from the kitchen as Combeferre knocks determinedly on the door to what has become Grantaire’s room. Grantaire admits him entry and they spend just about three hours in there, presumably talking. They emerge with some sort of understanding. The air feels a little lighter, the weight on Grantaire’s shoulders a little less back-breaking.)

+

The meeting that Wednesday is spent reviewing the repercussions from Combeferre’s passionate defense.

“Good news and bad news,” Bahorel says, rubbing his hands together as he presents in purple suit pants and a black-and-white striped t-shirt. (He’s got the matching purple jacket lounging around Feuilly’s smaller shoulders.)

“Bad news, that debate lost us a lot of stuff with people that otherwise might have voted for us based on our green policies,” Bahorel explains, sounding for all the world like he finished a political science degree instead of abandoning his law one after he finished it to work with Jehan at the shop.

(“I get to both buy and sell shit, Enj,” he’d explained when Enjolras expressed his disbelief after Bahorel’s graduation ceremony, “The law shit helps me run the thrift shop. What more do I want? I just want to be happy, man. I can still technically do work pro bono for Les Amis, I’m licensed.”)

“Good news though, you scored us so many points with the disillusioned youths of a generation we aren’t part of, and on the internet they decry you as cool and, occasionally, Courfeyrac, I know you’re going to love this: Smart Daddy Ferre.”

“How the fuck does that help us?” Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose.

“By youths, do you mean youths eligible for voting?” Musichetta wonders, pulling up a tablet and doing some research of her own. “Oh my god, they really do call you Daddy. Who knew so many people wanted to fuck you, Ferre?”

“I mean, _I_ wouldn’t say no, would you?” Joly shrugs next to her, and Bossuet makes a sign with his hands as if to say ‘what can you do?’

Bahorel nods with a sly grin on his face.

“We could milk that. Courf is, after all, the biggest twink in the room.”

“I hope by that you mean I am the tallest one, because Joly is definitely a twink as I am and he’s shorter than me.”

“By like two fingers-width, if that,” Joly dismisses, noticeably not denying the twink accusation.

“I can do a lot with two fingers,” Courfeyrac shoots back to everyone’s delight. Enjolras is just glad there are no reporters here tonight.

“Enjolras is a taller twink than you, so you aren’t even the tallest one,” Bahorel says, and now Enjolras definitely feels the need to step in and get them back on track.

“ _Bullshit_ , my friend! Pure bullshit! Enjolras’ muscles graduated to hunk status in prison and therefore I am the tallest twink in the core.”

“Alright, fair,” Bahorel acknowledges, and Courfeyrac looks satisfied.

The meeting carries on.

+

Courfeyrac discovers that R can carry a tune in Italian when he blasts Luciano Pavarotti one morning shortly after a new round of polls still have Combeferre firmly behind Enjolras’ father, and gaining steadily.

(“The power of disillusioned youngsters,” Courfeyrac had commented dreamily, “Everyday it gets harder to resist calling Combeferre Daddy in public.”

“You don’t even have a Daddy kink, Courf, it confuses and digusts you.”

“But think of what it could do-”

“No, Courf,” Combeferre had pressed his hands against his eyes. “I love you dearly, but sometimes your ideas are absolutely batshit, darling.”

“Why is there a ‘but’ between those two statements? How do they contradict one another? Explain? Mr. Combeferre you can’t just run away when the press asks you tough questions!” Courfeyrac had followed Combeferre to the bathroom, laughing.)

"Ah," Enjolras glares at the as of yet silent alarm clock on the nightstand, "April 25th, Courfeyrac is celebrating liberation day."

"Could have sworn France celebrates that in July, strange how time on the inside messes with your brain," Grantaire murmurs, head pillowed on Enjolras’ chest.

"Courfeyrac is very particular about his Italian roots. Ferre tolerates it."

"Does that mean Combeferre busts out the musical guns on the fifth of July?"

"He’s not as patriotic as Courfeyrac and his grandparents were on the French side during the Algerian War, but he has been known to hum a revolutionary song or two when he thinks no one is around," Enjolras laughs.

"Well, hate to dampen the spirit of liberation, but I’m going to need coffee."

Grantaire peels himself off of Enjolras’ chest, and stalks out of the room. About half a minute later, Enjolras hears a painfully loud shriek from Courfeyrac.

"You like _Luciano Pavarotti_?"

" _Oje vita, oje vita mia, bis oje core ‘e chistu core_..." Grantaire trills half-heartedly in return, stopping to presumably take a sip of his coffee. Courfeyrac’s following gasp is excited. This, Enjolras has to see.

"You didn’t tell me he knows Italian," Courfeyrac greets him with a smack to the chest.

"Fairly positive I did," Enjolras counters, accepting a cup of coffee from Grantaire gratefully. "Grantaire learned a lot of languages in prison."

"You know," R raises an eyebrow at Courfeyrac, "While I was contemplating how to murder Enjolras in his sleep."

Color drains from Courfeyrac’s face as he lets out an undignified shriek. "Oh lord," he says, turns and mutters something about needing to make sure Combeferre doesn’t make their water bill skyrocket. "You didn’t have to tell him I told you about his erstwhile reservations,” Enjolras admonishes, though he can’t hide the way his lip twitches.

+

Enjolras wakes up to the knocking on their door, but pretends to stay asleep when Grantaire leaves the bed to answer it. (They still keep it locked. It can’t be helped, they’d have to take turns sleeping otherwise and that would be very inconvenient.)

“Hey, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, “Can we talk?”

“Are you going to put clothes on for this talk or do I need to get the lotion from my basket?” Grantaire retorts, also in hushed tones.

“I _am_ wearing clothes,” Courfeyrac protests with a squeak, then clears his throat.

“You’re wearing _a type of cloth_ , Monsieur de Courfeyrac, draped around your waist.”

“I owe you an apology, Grantaire, and a talk…please?”

Enjolras smiles into his pillow. Courfeyrac can’t ever resist the allure of being on good terms with everybody he meets for long.

He walks into the kitchen at eight in the morning, after finishing half of a book in the last two hours, to see Courfeyrac and Grantaire still in conversation, quietly and seriously, like he’s rarely seen Courfeyrac before when not in a professional capacity. It almost distracts from the fact that he is still just wearing bedsheets tied around his waist. Almost.

Combeferre is long gone for work – he has handed in his notice, but he’s helping out both because he can’t stay away for long from saving lives if he isn’t actually busy for the day, and because it goes over very well with the general public of their voter base. The polls are still climbing and the gap to Enjolras’ father is closing.

“When did you get up?”

“Seven,” says Courfeyrac, as Grantaire says: “He woke me up at three AM.”

“Don’t _tell_ him that,” Courfeyrac gasps, affronted.

“He was awake by the time you knocked,” Grantaire shrugs. Courfeyrac’s eyes widen.

“Right, right, you said as much, startling awake at the slightest sound, part of the experience.”

Grantaire has a rather loud sip of his coffee and gives Enjolras a shy, hesitant glance. He smiles and comes over to give Grantaire a kiss on the cheek.

It’s a start.

+

Some days are better than others, and today seems like a bad day, from what Enjolras can tell. Grantaire is sitting on his balcony, legs dangling between the bars of the railing and hands wrapped around them. A cigarette between his lips is almost used up but he seems to have not made use of the ashtray.

“Hey,” says Enjolras, coming to sit down next to him, his legs dangling in a similar fashion.

“I’ve been out for over one and a half years now,” Grantaire tells him.

“How are you feeling about that?” Enjolras asks.

“Thought I’d be back inside by now,” Grantaire shrugs, but his hands are shaking. Enjolras leans forwards, feels the cold press of the railing against his cheek and considers Grantaire.

He’s looking happier, most days. The bags beneath his eyes aren’t so bad anymore. He can see the brown of them unobscured now, and he loves it. He loves R.

“I don’t want you to go back inside.”

“I’m already beating the statistics, from what Éponine says. She says hello, by the way, and Gavroche says to tell you he still has that switchblade and the means to get in and out of Paris undetected.”

“He’s a scary kid,” Enjolras shrugs. He isn’t above admitting it.

“He’s a scar _ed_ kid,” Grantaire corrects. “Scared that his parents are going to get parole and take him away from Éponine. Scared that Éponine won’t get custody in the long run. Scared that he’ll lose more people of the very few that matter to him.”

“Are those reasonable fears?”

“Fears are almost never reasonable,” Grantaire finally taps the cigarette on the ashtray and Enjolras watches as half the smoked cigarette falls to dust. “It’s why they’re so persistent.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Enjolras shakes his head. “I was reasonably afraid that cop was going to kill Prouvaire.”

“Hm,” says Grantaire, going back to smoking and facing the city street, people watching.

“What are you scared of, R?”

“Waking up and having you finally see enough sense not to want me anymore,” R answers after some deliberation. “Landing back on the inside for things beyond my control. Landing back on the inside in general.”

“Do you think you’ll ever do what you did again?”

“Don’t feel an itch to kill someone in my fingers when they tremble, if that’s what you’re asking,” R gets defensive.

“I’m not.”

“But if some cop came at you the way you say they did at Jehan…” R trails off, puts his cigarette stub out, “I probably wouldn’t think to hold back before the threat was eliminated.”

“I’m not going to violent protests anymore.”

“You say that now.”

“The election is in two weeks, R,” Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not risking that.”

“And afterwards?” R wonders, “Are you going to sit back and collect signatures when you could be out there getting rowdy in the name of justice?”

“If it makes you feel better, yes, I will. There are many ways that a people can fight.”

Grantaire levels him with a long look of suspicion. But Enjolras means it.

“We shall overcome their power,” Enjolras tells him, seriously.

+

Enjolras comes home from practice discussions with Feuilly and Bahorel to find Grantaire cooking for Courfeyrac, who is pacing the floor of the apartment with urgency. While the air in the room is agitated, it seems things between those two are finally reaching a state of acceptable equilibrium.

(Odd how it took Courfeyrac the longest to warm up to Grantaire, all things considered.)

“What is it?”

“Combeferre is at the hospital putting in a voluntary shift,” Grantaire says and holds out a spoon for him to taste.

“The _night_ before the election,” Courfeyrac laments, never interrupting his pacing. “ _Oh, Courf, my darling, I have the highest regard for your nerves,_ of course I’ll be there by your side, bullshit! Utter bullshit!”

“He does seem like the Mr. Bennett type,” Grantaire muses. Courfeyrac looks confused. “That’s from Pride and Prejudice,” he explains.

“Is it?”

“Mhm,” Enjolras agrees, setting out plates. Four of them. Combeferre should be home soon, even if he did pick up a shift. He’s not the type to leave Courfeyrac alone when the man is nervous. (Which is odd, since Courfeyrac isn’t even the one running for office – he’s just giddily nervous as a rule. Usually he compensates by trash-talking the opposition. Once, at a protest, that happened to be the water hose that made him lose his hat. No one but him mourned that hat. “I would have burned it eventually,” Combeferre shrugged when pressed about it. Today, he can’t trash talk the opposition because Enjolras’ father has already been a topic in this household a million times. He’s talked through and spit out again, thrice-over.)

“Makes you wonder how many literary confessions he’s made to you that you’ve missed,” Grantaire quips, tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot, apparently satisfied with whatever he created. The small bit he tasted was sort of like a tomato sauce.

Combeferre comes in after dinner has mostly gone lukewarm, exhausted, and Courfeyrac hugs him close and says: “Don’t you Combe _dare_ do that to me again.”

There’s a fond roll of eyes, and then they mostly disappear into the bedroom. (Not before Courfeyrac urges Combeferre to eat something though. “Grantaire made it. It’s _very_ good.”)

+

Sunday morning, Combeferre catches Grantaire at the coffeemaker and clears his throat loudly to declare his presence. Enjolras looks up from his newspaper as well. (They’ve been awake since six AM, but it’s easier to be awake at that hour every day if you aren’t the only one.)

“Are you coming today, Grantaire?” Combeferre wonders.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Grantaire tenses, pushing a cup of coffee towards him.

“I do want you there,” he explains, “I value you.”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac, bedsheet stained and tied lazily around him like a toga, emerges behind Combeferre. “You’re core now, you know?”

“And what are you? _Core-_ iolanus?” Grantaire motions towards the Roman inspired morning get-up.

“I can’t believe you’re calling _me_ a tragedy,” Courfeyrac gasps, hand on his chest.

“Oh, _that_ literary reference you get? I make a million a day and watch them fly over your head because you only read non-fiction all day, and then _this_?”

“What the fuck kind of literary reference, Ferre? Coriolanus was Roman general.”

“Grantaire meant the Shakespeare play.” Combeferre shakes his head.

“ _Bullshit_ he did,” Courfeyrac retorts.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask him then?”

“Fine.”

Both of them turn towards Grantaire.

“Honestly it was just a really bad pun, you guys, let’s focus on what’s important here, yeah?”

+

Tensions run high that day, as Bahorel and Musichetta scour the web for initial voter information and Combeferre gives plenty more press interviews with Courfeyrac by his side.

(According to Bahorel, the fiery debates between Combeferre and Enjolras’ father became something of a sensation on the International Web and therefore this election has called more media presence than others.

“This one is great, Enjolras, you’ll love it,” Bahorel clears his throat and begins a dramatic reading of a comment. “‘Yass, hashtag Smart Daddy, hit me with that _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_ shit.’”

Bahorel keeps them entertained as the morning progresses with various more colorful comments.)

“If this happens to be a win for us, we might have luck getting a few _Députés_ in the coming years, what do you think?” Combeferre nudges Enjolras’ shoulder as they sit in the Musain – declared their headquarters.

“I don’t know, _Smart Daddy_ ,” Enjolras purposefully keeps his voice grave, “Who’d you have in mind?”

“Enjolras is making jokes, you guys,” Courfeyrac cries, “The day is already won.”

“I think Feuilly’d be a good candidate for the Assembly, don’t you agree? You can’t tell me you’ve been doing all that debating for nothing.”

“We’ll see, hm?” Enjolras nudges him in return. “Win your seat first.”

Courfeyrac disappears somewhere with Jehan for undisclosed reasons, and Combeferre lowers his voice so that no one overhears.

“I’m sorry, you know,” he says, frowning, “For not believing you about Grantaire.”

“I was sorry too.”

“There was just this huge disconnect when you got out, Enjolras, and I couldn’t reconcile that with the man I used to know like the back of my hand. But – I’ve got to say, you’re good with one another. I’m glad you had him in there, I’m glad he’s got you now.”

“How did you find out that stuff about what happened to him?”

“Made a few calls to an old professor of mine in Calais. He heard about my getting into politics. I’d had concerns that your father would press the issue. I wanted to know who I’d be defending. More than that, I wanted to be able to defend him well. I’m sad I couldn’t spare him having to revisit that topic, but I tried my best.”

“But you knew from the beginning you were going to defend him?”

“I’m mostly a decent person, I think,” Combeferre smiles, “He was important to you before he was important to me, but that was already enough to matter.”

Enjolras hums at that, takes a sip of his beer.

By six in the evening the results are in.

Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes across the room and they both smile.

(There is no routine for the losing candidate to call and concede the seat to the winner, but man, Enjolras wishes he could hear his father congratulate Combeferre now.)

+

“Okay, be honest with me,” Grantaire says with an entirely straight face that brings the fear of god back into Enjolras, later in bed, “How sad are you that you aren’t the new Senator?”

“Fuck off,” Enjolras hits him with a pillow, but then they’re both laughing. “Be serious.”

“I am wild,” grins Grantaire. “It’s a historic victory, and you not at the forefront of it? Don’t tell me that doesn’t harsh your vibe at least a little bit.”

Enjolras says something into the pillow.

“Come again?”

“I won what was really important.” He repeats, louder, cracking one eye open to look at Grantaire, propped on his elbow, bathed in the moonlight streaming in from the balcony. Stunning. Wonderful.

“Yeah? Increased security around the apartment and possible death-threats from people that aren’t down with the left or the gay?”

“You.” Enjolras says, pursing his lips.

“Excuse you,” Grantaire protests playfully as Enjolras crawls over him. “I am a person with rights and dignity the constitution guarantees me. I can’t be _won_ , monsieur Enjolras-”

Enjolras kisses him until they can’t laugh anymore.

This is the life he wants.

**Author's Note:**

> do pls let me know what you thought :)


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